


Bastard Weeps

by sahiya



Series: Bastard Weeps [1]
Category: Lois McMaster Bujold's Curse of Chalion
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-30
Updated: 2007-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the siege of Gortoget, Cazaril and Palli share a Father's Day feast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bastard Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic for awhile and I finally got around to it. Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading. As a canon note for anyone who hasn't read the book four times like I have (two of which were in the last two months, trying to get a handle on this story), "Bastard weeps. Bastard weeps" was Palli's "battle-mumble" (as Caz describes it) during the siege.

The stone was free of snow, thank the gods, but freezing nevertheless, even through the cloth of Palli’s tunic as he dragged himself along on his belly. He held an uncocked crossbow carefully in one hand and paused, listening to the wind whipping up along the parapets of Gotorget. He was so low to the ground that he felt none of its chill, though the rock made his hands ache. A gray, miserable, snowless Father’s Day it had been, and the night looked to be worse.

Palli pulled himself along another few inches and then paused again. Beneath the howling of the wind he thought he could just make out the scritching of small feet and smaller nails against stone. He cocked the crossbow and waited for the glint of moonlight off two tiny eyes.

 _There. There you are, my small, scrawny friend_. The rat was sitting up, nose raised, sniffing the wind. It truly was a pauper of a thing, fit only for stew. It had probably been foolish for Palli to hope to find a rat still plump enough for him and Caz to roast for their Father’s Day feast. He let fly the crossbow bolt with a quiet _thump_ of the string. The poor creature scarcely had time for a squeal of alarm.

Palli puffed out a silent breath of triumphant laughter and lunged forward to claim his prize. He didn’t bother to yank out the bolt before standing – and ah, there was the wind. Five gods, it was like an icy hand beneath his woefully inadequate clothing, a bitter imitation of a caress. He shuddered and hurried back inside, where it was hardly less cold but at least not quite as windy, and made his way up the south tower to meet Cazaril.

“What did you find?” Palli asked, closing the heavy oak door of Caz’s quarters against the wind that had chased him down the hall as though in pursuit of their rat. Not that it helped much; the commander’s quarters, though luxurious by fortress standards, were drafty at the best of times. Their only true advantages were some semblance of privacy and a view of the mountains on a clear day – and of the Roknari’s camp the rest of the time.

“An onion,” Caz said, holding up a blackened bulb, “a bit of pepper, and . . .” He held out his other hand, clenched in a palms-down fist, and paused before turning it over and opening his fingers to reveal - “ _Two_ potatoes.”

Sadly, Palli did not have to feign his gasp of delight. “What blessings the Father has brought us on this, His day,” he intoned.

“Indeed,” Caz said dryly. He allowed his offerings to roll pathetically across the table before nodding toward Palli’s bundle. “I see you were also successful.”

“Yes,” Palli said, holding his rat up for Caz to see. “A nice rat stew there shall be for us this night.”

“How splendid,” Caz said. His tone was caustic, but Palli had no doubt that he was anticipating every mouthful. A rat, an onion, a bit of pepper, and a potato each; it was more than Palli had come to hope for. All across Gortoget tonight, starving men banded together to scrape the bottom of the fortress’s barrels in celebration of the Father’s Day, even as the Roknari did the same out on the field. Palli could see their cook fires now, out Cazaril’s window, but five gods be thanked, the wind was blowing from the wrong direction to smell them.

The two of them were silent throughout the brief preparation of their meal. As the rat was his prize, Palli took charge of removing head, tail, skin, and the entrails he deemed inedible, though they did not spurn the liver or kidneys. Cazaril brought the pot he’d pinched from the kitchens to a boil over a fire in his hearth, and they added the onions and the pepper to the meat and bones. The potatoes they would add later, once they had stripped the rat meat.

Palli settled himself at Cazaril’s table then; Caz himself did not sit immediately, but rather paused, frowning in thought and rubbing a hand over his chin with its scraggly beard growth.

“Caz?” Palli inquired at last.

“A moment,” Caz said, holding up a finger, and then stuck his top half into his wardrobe. Palli raised an eyebrow and waited; he raised the second one when Cazaril reappeared with a bottle of wine and two cups.

“I was saving it,” Caz admitted in response to Palli’s frank amazement. “It isn’t a very good vintage, I am afraid, but it is the last bottle.” He shrugged. “I finally realized we aren’t likely to have anything else to celebrate, save liberation, and if that happens –”

“Then we shall have wine aplenty,” Palli finished. He smiled, though it felt tight, for in Caz’s words was the admission that if help did not come, they surely would not last until the Daughter’s Day. He cleared his throat. “Caz, I could kiss your hands. This was all our feast was wanting.”

Cazaril merely nodded and poured for them both. Palli held his glass up – it was paler than straw and thin as piss, but he had no doubt it would get them drunk – and offered a toast to the Son and the Father before drinking. Cazaril echoed his words, though his tone rang strangely hollow, and drank half his glass in one swallow. On an empty stomach – and their stomachs were very empty – he would be drunk almost instantly. Palli took a second, cautious sip. Sobriety held little appeal for him as well, but someone had to finish preparing their stew.

They fell into silence then; there was nothing left to say after so long in the fortress. No riders could come or go and so there was no news. For the first few months they had forced levity on such occasions, but as time had passed and the stores had dwindled, they had ceased trying, with each other at least. With the men, it was different, but with each other – there was no point. Palli sighed, slumping in his chair, and lost himself in listening to the revelry from the Roknari camp. _Roast venison on a spit over an open fire. Gods._ His wine glass tilted precariously.

Cazaril must have been thinking similarly, because when he spoke at last he asked, “What do you miss most?”

 _Venison. Or a roast pig, skin crisp and crackling, dripping sizzling fat down into the fire. A dark wine, hot and spiced._ Palli had to take a sip of their own sour vintage before he managed to reply, “These days, I must confess, I cannot think much past food.”

Cazaril gave a brief laugh. “I quite understand.”

Palli expected him to go on to say what he missed most – they’d had a number of such conversations, pleasure and torture in equal measure – but he did not. At length Palli stood to check the stew. He paused standing over it, breathing deeply. It neither smelled nor looked particularly appetizing, but it was something.

“Today I thought,” Cazaril said, as Palli removed the pot from the fire and picked out the rat bones to strip the stringy meat from them – hardly necessary, he saw, as most of it had come off in the simmering. “I thought, I could not remember the last time I saw a woman.”

Palli blinked and paused in his work. “Women. Yes, I believe I remember them. Shorter, smaller, softer?”

“And they smell better,” Cazaril added in a mutter. Palli cast him an injured look and Caz waved his hand, nearly upsetting the wine bottle. “Except for you, of course, my friend. You smell of rat stew, and everyone knows that is the finest scent in the world, more precious than the most costly of Darthacan oils.”

Palli gave an amused grunt. He finished slicing the potatoes, added them to the pot, and returned it to the fire. He leaned there for a moment, forehead pressed against the warmed stone of the mantle. He felt the heat of the fire on his face, his chest, his knees; it was almost uncomfortably warm, but an icy wind touched his back and he found he could not move. Roast venison and a dark red wine – and a woman, the daughter of a friend of Palli’s father, a certain dark-haired beauty, soft and warm –

“Palli?” said Cazaril’s voice in his ear.

Palli swallowed and found he could not answer. Could not speak, could not move, could hardly breathe. He forced a deep breath at last, smelled stew and wood smoke and something else, possibly Cazaril. He trained his eyes on the glowing, red-hot embers. There was sweat on his face. Sweat, or tears. The icy wind at his back had vanished with Cazaril standing so very close.

“Palli,” Cazaril said again, but Palli dared neither answer nor turn to face him. Finally he felt Caz move away; Palli tightened his grip on the mantle briefly and then pushed away from it, nearly knocking into Cazaril, who had not gone so far as Palli had thought.

They looked at each other. “We should let it simmer,” Palli said at last, roughly.

Cazaril’s hand landed heavily on Palli’s shoulder. “Yes, we should,” he agreed and poured more wine for them both. Palli stood for a moment in bemusement before seating himself at the table once more. If Cazaril even noticed his distraction, much less guessed the reason for it, he did not let on. But Cazaril would not, of course. Palli drank deeply this time.

They fell once more into silence. And what had that been? Palli wondered. That flare, that spark of – heat? Had it been mere warmth or something else? Palli blinked and eyed Cazaril over the rim of his cup. He’d not had any indication before that his captain might be inclined to the sorts of odd loves the Bastard ruled. Palli knew men who were, of course, and in so long a siege . . .

Palli looked away, toward the fire and then down into his cup. It had been a very long siege indeed. It would not last much longer. They would not last. He wanted roast venison; he wanted a wine rich and dark; he wanted a black-eyed beauty to hold until he was sated in all ways – what had her name been, the daughter of his father’s friend? Lucia, he remembered suddenly. Lovely, lithe Lucia.

Instead he had rat stew, a piss poor sour vintage, and Cazaril. _An unworthy comparison_ , Palli thought guiltily, and watched his captain stretch his long legs. He was thin as a scarecrow and he’d likely neither washed nor shaved in several days. And yet.

Palli felt something stirring – _heh_ – in him that he’d not felt in months, a familiar heat low in his empty belly. Strange to feel anything there that wasn’t gnawing fear or hunger.

Cazaril was watching him in turn, Palli realized suddenly. “Do you think it might be done simmering?” Caz asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

It had not been quite long enough, but they were both much too hungry to care. Palli nodded. “Yes, I think it very well might.”

They portioned the stew out carefully; it made exactly two bowls, no more, but was surprisingly good. The meat was not as tough and stringy as usual and the broth was savory from the onions, with just a hint of the pepper. Even the wine tasted better with the food. Palli forced himself to go slowly; quite beyond wanting to savor the best meal he’d had in months, he was afraid he might be ill if he ate too fast and that would be a terrible waste. He saved the last few bites of potato at the bottom of the bowl, cutting them into small chunks with his spoon to make them last as long as possible.

When at last he laid his spoon down and pushed his empty bowl away, he glanced up to see Cazaril watching him intently. Without asking, Caz emptied the last of the wine into Palli’s cup. Palli considered draining it; whatever strange feeling had passed between them had been fleeting, and it had robbed Palli of his courage in its passing. Even so, the knowledge that this might well be his last swallow of wine in this life stayed his hand. He wet his lips with it instead and stood to cross to the hearth, where he attempted to poke some life back into the dying fire. After a few moments Cazaril joined him, reaching out to brace himself against the mantle, much as Palli had done earlier.

“I expect a Roknari envoy tomorrow,” Caz said in a low voice.

Palli glanced toward him. “Another bribe?”

Cazaril nodded. “Of course. As if I could ever think –” He covered first his eyes and then his mouth with his hand.

“Surely the gods must deliver us safely,” Palli said cautiously.

Cazaril gave a quiet, bitter puff of laughter. “The gods. The gods have abandoned us here, Palli. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Caz –”

“Forgive me, Palli, I’m afraid I’m rather drunk – the wine –”

“Cazaril,” Palli said softly and turned to meet his gaze. He saw exhaustion there, and desperate longing; Palli wondered if it was for the same things as his own. Lucia, her name had been. But Palli had not witnessed Lucia resisting two Roknari bribes with his own eyes, had not shared with Lucia the last bottle of wine he thought he would ever drink. Cazaril turned so that his back was to the fire, burned down to embers and casting naught but a faint orange glow. Exhaustion, desperate longing, and something perilously close to defeat. Palli leaned in and pressed his lips to Cazaril’s.

At first there was more benediction than eroticism in the kiss. It was a dry press of skin, no more. But then Cazaril’s lips parted in what might have been startlement; his lower lip caught at Palli’s and something flared between them as it had earlier, warm, strong, bright, brighter than the dying embers of their cook fire. They stepped towards each other, Palli reaching for Cazaril’s hip, Cazaril’s hand rising to grasp Palli’s shoulder.

Afterward, Palli could not recall who deepened the kiss; it seemed to happen by mutual assent, along with the slow, stumbling shuffled toward the bed. There was a pause while they set down their cups – Palli had the fleeting thought that they might want them, after – and then Caz grasped Palli’s tunic and pulled him toward him again, kissed him, hungrily this time. Palli was taken aback at first, and then found himself shrugging out of his tunic, baring his shoulders to the cold air and the warm slide of Cazaril’s hands across and down them. He pushed Cazaril’s own tunic out of the way. His shirt was no longer as clean as it had once been, but still soft. A little threadbare under Palli’s fingertips. Palli hoped his hands were not unpleasantly cold as they slid into the warmth between the cloth and Caz’s skin. Caz shivered at the touch, but his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, and Palli suspected it was not from the coldness of his hands after all. Palli’s hands roamed; Cazaril sighed against his lips. Palli could count every one of his ribs.

“Palli,” Cazaril murmured. “Please, do not feel you must – if you would not –”

Palli stopped his words with another kiss. He palmed the back of Cazaril’s head, the slide of short, coarse hair between his fingers a new sensation. Caz’s thin, uneven beard scratched him and he was so looming tall – a fact which mattered not at all mere seconds later as Palli sat – collapsed – on the bed, a lumpy, straw-filled mattress, but better than a pallet for this, at least, and pulled Caz to him. They divested themselves of tunics and shirts once and for all, and then, not speaking but with breath coming shorter and faster, they made quick work of the fastenings on each other’s trousers. Palli sighed in relief once he was free of them; they had grown uncomfortably tight.

It was much too cold to stand about with no clothes. Together they pulled back the bedclothes and crawled beneath, Palli marveling at the sensation of hot skin sliding against hot skin. The fire had almost gone out altogether, and the dark made it easier, somehow, for them to negotiate the warm, dark space under the blankets, until Palli’s knee was lodged between Cazaril’s legs. Their hands clutched at each other as they whispered things in the dark that died in the telling and remained half-unspoken. Palli realized he had not been warm in months and now that he was, part of him wanted little more than to enjoy it. But another part of him – a very specific part, in truth – had something else in mind. Caz shifted above him and Palli gasped, thrusting. “Gods,” he managed and Caz gave a low moan of – Palli hoped – assent.

It took a few awkward, fumbling moments for them to find a rhythm of sorts. Palli closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the thrust and give of their bodies, the slick, sliding heat. They were both too bony for this, he thought, grunting as Caz’s elbow caught him in the ribs, and it was a little rough and painful. All the same, the gods only knew that Palli felt better than he had in weeks. Months. Ever.

“Palli,” Cazaril gasped suddenly, and Palli opened his eyes in time to see Cazaril stiffen, clench his jaw, and groan. Palli found himself unexpectedly echoing him – he’d not thought himself so close – and then there was a warm wash of fluid between them. They thrust against each other once or twice more, weakly, and then collapsed, breathing hard. Cazaril’s face was turned into Palli’s neck, his breath gusting raggedly across his collarbone. Palli closed his eyes again and swallowed.

Neither of them stirred until Palli shivered and reached for the bedclothes that had slipped off. Then Caz pushed away, leaving Palli colder and rather bereft. Caz sat up, rubbed his face bemusedly, and stood. He tucked the blankets around Palli with a faint smile. Palli raised an eyebrow at him, but somehow knew it would be better if he held his tongue. He pushed himself up against the wall, ignoring the cold, and watched as Caz padded across the room. He could not see Cazaril properly, only as a vague outline and vaguer movements in the sere white light that shone through the window. Palli turned his head toward that light. It was snowing.

Cazaril returned at last; Palli had no notion how he’d withstood the cold, but then saw with a start that Cazaril had dressed again. He offered Palli a damp rag and Palli accepted it, frowning.

“I’m sorry it’s cold,” Caz said, gesturing toward the rag. He loomed by the bed, a forbiddingly tall shadow. “The fire –”

“Yes, quite,” Palli said. The rag was cold, freezing even, but that was not what made Palli frown more deeply. And yet, what had he expected, after all? This was nothing. He had known it to be so. He had no reason now to feel – anything. No reason at all. What _had_ he expected?

“It is coming on midnight,” Cazaril was saying, gazing out the window as Palli had. “I must walk the battlements.”

“Surely not, Caz,” Palli replied, raising his eyebrows. “It is the Father’s Day – not even the Roknari –”

“It is the Father’s Day no more, Palli,” Cazaril replied, still not looking at him. “And I am done attempting to guess what the Roknari might or mightn’t do. Perhaps they will decide that sending an envoy tomorrow would be more trouble than taking us in the night. I do not know, and I cannot guess. And so I walk the battlements tonight, the same as any other.”

Palli shook his head. Cazaril was exhausted, he judged, and badly in need of rest. He’d known Caz to turn fey when he was overtired, but this seemed to go beyond that to a leaden hopelessness. _Gods forefend. He is the mortar holding this fortress together._ “Not tonight, Caz, please. Leave it to someone else. Lie down awhile. I’ll go,” he finished, hopefully disguising his odd and pointless reluctance.

“You needn’t go, Palli,” Caz said, looking to him at last, though in the dark it hardly mattered. For a moment, Palli was hopeful. Then Caz stepped away and added, “I’ll likely not return before dawn. Stay as long you wish. The bed is comfortable.” He turned then, and was gone.

Palli did not stay, of course. He washed and dressed, swallowed the last of his wine and Cazaril’s too, then sought his own cold, hard pallet. He lay rolled in his blanket, wakeful despite the wine and the hour. _Rat stew, thin wine, Cazaril . . ._

They would not live to see the Daughter’s Day.

 _Bastard weeps. Bastard weeps._

*~*~*

They did not see the Daughter’s Day in Gortoget. It was sold before then, in the most shameful manner imaginable, just weeks after their Father’s Day celebration. The news left Palli breathless with rage, left Cazaril white and trembling with anger. They would be delivered in the morning. Liberation at last. Palli wanted to vomit.

He parted from Cazaril that night after the audience with dy Jironal’s courier, agreeing that on the morrow they would seek the nearest tavern and drink themselves numb. Palli unwillingly remembered when last they’d done that, but they had never spoken of it since and they did not speak of it now as they wished each other good-night.

Palli went to his pallet for the last time. Tomorrow they would all sleep in heated rooms with cheerful fires in the grates and warming pans in their beds if they so wished. Tomorrow he might have his venison or roast pig or both. He might have his hot, spiced wine. He might have a woman, if he was not particular. He found himself strangely uncaring and wondered if Cazaril would be particular. He did not normally avail himself of the drabs that invariably followed where the Son’s soldiers went. But it had been a very long siege indeed, with only Palli –

 _No. Think of the wine._

He thought of the wine and did not think of Cazaril, until at last his rage dampened enough to allow him to sleep.

The following evening, when the ransomed men gathered in a field tent-turned-tavern, Cazaril was not among them. Palli lost all thirst and left the tent to march across the field to dy Jironal’s own. Palli half-expected to see his captain there in council – though if Caz willingly had anything to do with dy Jironal ever again, Palli would be very surprised indeed – but it was only dy Jironal and his secretary.

Dy Jironal broke off dictating a letter when Palli entered without leave, and raised his eyebrows. “What is this?”

“Captain Lupe dy Cazaril, sir,” Palli said, raising his chin. “Might you tell me where he is?”

“Ah – yes,” dy Jironal said, nodding to his secretary. The man rolled up the scroll carefully and set it aside, busying himself with the things on his makeshift field desk. Dy Jironal folded his hands over his chest and sighed. “Forgive me – someone should have told you.”

“Told me what?” Palli asked tightly. _Five gods, no, not after all –_

“Captain dy Cazaril took a sudden fever,” dy Jironal said with great solemnity. “The Roknari reported that he died earlier today, before he could be ransomed.”

Palli rocked back on his heels as though struck and managed to rasp out, “Not possible. I saw him only last night.”

Dy Jironal sighed. “It was very quick, they said. Such things happen.”

Palli could not answer. It seemed impossible – and yet, he supposed they did. Cazaril had been so very white when last Palli had seen him, white and shaking – from the news, Palli had only assumed. Sometimes, when a great burden was lifted, men simply folded. _Or when a man’s heart is broken . . ._ Yes, such things did happen, even to men like Cazaril, who had never taken ill in all the long months of deprivation. Or perhaps that was especially to men like Cazaril. Palli imagined him collapsing, feverish, delirious, among the enemy. He could only hope they had treated him well, and that they would burn his body as he deserved and not leave him for the crows. He could only pray now, when it did no good.

Dy Jironal turned back to speak to his secretary. He was clearly dismissed. Palli stumbled out. He would not tell the men, not tonight.

He returned to the tavern-tent. He stood looking around in bewilderment for nearly ten minutes, before setting himself down on the ground at the edge of the revelry with his cup and a bowl of stew, steaming with hot chunks of venison and potatoes and carrots and onions. He could not eat. He began to weep into his hands, silently, spilling his cup so that the dark red wine ran out across the grass, cleared of snow but still damp and cold. It soaked into the ground, leaving a dark stain like blood behind.

A shadow fell across him; a woman crouched beside him, laid warm hands on his face, and asked him what ailed him. He told her his captain was dead and she drew him to her, stroked his hair, and when at last he had ceased weeping, she took him by the hand and led him out.

She was not Lucia, of course – she was a drab, though an unusually beautiful one – but she was warm and willing and surprisingly soft-spoken. They found a deserted tent and tied the flap shut before undressing without ceremony and lying down on a thin, hard pallet. Palli touched her only where he must, closed his eyes, and spent himself in her quickly. Too quickly.

She allowed him to hold her afterward despite his weakness. He lay with her head on his chest; her hair was lightly perfumed and he leaked tears into it helplessly. A hot red wine, venison stew, and a sweet woman. Palli would gladly trade it all for another quarter of an hour with Cazaril that cold, despairing Father’s Day night.

His lips formed the words and he found himself saying them, not of his own volition, no more a battle-mumble but a prayer. Or had it always been so?

 _Bastard weeps. Bastard weeps._

 _Oh, Cazaril._

 _Fin._


End file.
